


and for forgiveness pray

by wrenrambles



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2549465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenrambles/pseuds/wrenrambles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Angel had never regained his sanity after he returned from Hell?  Dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and for forgiveness pray

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: B/A  
> Rating: Mature  
> Disclaimer: Not mine  
> Feedback: renskidoodledo at yahoo dot com  
> A/N: This one wouldn't leave me alone. It's short, but certainly not sweet. No beta, all errors are my own.

You feel the years in the creak of your bones and the effort it takes to do the things that used to be simple, like getting out of bed and going down the stairs.  Hair that was once painted gold by the California sunshine has faded to grey and it falls over your shoulders in wisps.  You can barely remember your skin, taut and tanned, that is now so pale and folds over your joints like a blanket. Sometimes when you catch your reflection in the mirror you think that maybe someone swapped bodies with you, like that time with Faith.

 

But no one would want to switch bodies with you anymore, even if there was anyone left.  Everyone is dead because that's what humans do, they die.  You're still alive because you're the Slayer, a Slayer, or so you assume because there have been new Slayers since Faith died and no one bothers with you anymore because you're so old you're almost a myth.   

 

It's convenient, to compartmentalize like that.  Because you know the real reason the Watchers and the Slayers won't come to you is the same reason your friends stopped coming to you and the same reason you're going to die alone instead of surrounded by fat, happy grandchildren. 

 

Well, not entirely alone.

 

You pour coffee and make breakfast - the same meal you've eaten for many decades because solitude breeds ritual in a way you didn't expect.  You say your prayers because God is obligated to listen and it's comforting to think that someone hears you, and then you read the news and shake your head to rid yourself of your guilt at the state of the world.  When your coffee is done and the dishes are washed you heat up the container in your fridge and walk to the room at the end of the hall.

 

Your hand pauses on the doorknob and you take a breath so deep it hurts your lungs before you push the reinforced steel door open.  He's where he always is, tucked in the corner of the mattress, but he looks up when you come in and you think, oh, he's having a good day.

 

'Good morning, Angel,' you say and even after all these years harbor hope that he might reply.  He doesn't of course, and instead drinks what you've brought.  You've lost your ability to be grossed out but today you watch him, carefully.  Nothing has changed, you know this of course, but today of all days you need to be sure.

 

'I'm sorry,' you say because you're not sure how else to do this.  'I'm sorry that I did this to you and I'm sorry that I couldn't fix it.'

 

You can't clearly remember Willow's resolve face or Giles' apartment or what the names of Xander's children but if you close your eyes you can still remember the night Angel returned from Hell.  You'd chained him up and tried to nurse him back to sanity but you couldn't, not alone, and no one else could either.  They'd tried until there was nothing left to try and then they'd tried to convince you that death would be merciful.  This had been the beginning of the end even if you had tried to make it work but they couldn't ignore the elephant in the room and you didn't want to and then it was just the end.

 

You take his hand which is a risk but he accepts the touch and you shiver at his coolness.  'I have always loved you,' you whisper because even if he doesn't understand it you need to hear the words again.   He grows agitated and you take your hand back.  You wonder if time would cease to pass if you chose to ignore it but that's not how it works, of course, and soon you're wiping tears from your eyes before you even realize you're crying. 

 

'I'm sorry,' you say and then you press the knife against your throat and press just hard enough to draw blood, bright red against your pale, pale skin.  He reacts as you expect but you still close your eyes when his teeth break your skin and draw out your life force.  It's not tragic, you think, because it's the human condition and you knew your death was inevitable.  Your doctor had given you the prognosis just days ago: terminal.  He'd spoken about the time you had left and pain medication but you'd sent him away.  You wouldn't die alone but you couldn't tell him that, because how do you explain that it is necessary, merciful, to kill your lover (former lover?) because there's no one that can care for him after you are gone?  As he drinksyou hope that maybe this can buy you his forgiveness, even if you doubt you're destined for the same place after death.  

 

You let his body crush yours and remember his bed, in the mansion, and his body, gentle and comforting.  When your heart begins to slow and your vision begins to swim you wrap your fingers around the stake he didn't notice and bring it down into his back.  He pulls his head back and the sudden lack of contact is jarring and when he says your name, in the way he used to like you were his salvation ---

 

_Buffy_

 

_\---_ your stomach clenches and you reach for his face but then he's gone and you're coated in a fine layer of dust.  You lay on the mattress and give yourself permission to cry, watching as tears mix with ash and blood.  You cry until there are no more tears and you bleed until your veins run dry and you hear your heart quiet in your ears.  You're expecting your life to flash before your eyes, but it doesn't.  Instead you hear the verses of a poem you'd once read

 

_Because I've eighty years and odd/and darkling is my day/I now prepare to meet my God/and for forgiveness pray_

 

and pray one final time for salvation before closing your eyes. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
